The soft hum of the air conditioner mixed with the faint rustle of white linen sheets. Her eyes fluttered open, blinking against the pale morning light filtering through the thick beige curtains. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and something expensive she couldn’t name. For a moment, she didn’t move—her body sore in places she wasn’t ready to admit, her lips dry, and the sheets still warm beneath her bare skin.
She sat up slowly, pulling the satin cover to her chest as the hotel room came into focus. It wasn’t the kind of place college girls like her usually ended up in. Polished marble floors, a bottle of wine half-drunk on the side table, a black shirt slung carelessly over the back of a leather chair. His shirt.
Her heart skipped once.
Last night had been… intense. Surreal, even.
And yet, it didn’t feel wrong.
She closed her eyes, letting the memory drift back—slow, vivid, like a forbidden film she was watching for the second time.
It had started just a few days ago… on a rainy afternoon in Bangalore.
It was not the dramatic kind of monsoon rain that sweeps the streets in fury—but a soft, steady drizzle that made everything smell like wet mud and old memories. She had been standing under the shade of the hospital canteen’s awning, clutching her notebook close to her chest, her hair slightly damp, and her patience wearing thin.
She had just finished her orientation shift—twelve hours of standing, observing, running around, and being invisible. Her head hurt. Her phone was at 5%. And the auto drivers outside were charging double, thanks to the rain.
That’s when she saw him.
A tall man, walking out from the private wing of the hospital, in dark scrubs and a black coat folded over his arm. Salt-and-pepper hair, neatly styled. A Rolex peeking from under his sleeve. He wasn’t looking around like others did—no rush, no irritation, just calm. Like he moved through the world without needing to explain himself.
He paused right near her—scrolling something on his phone—and for a second, their eyes met.
She looked away first.
He didn’t.
"New intern?" His voice was deeper than she expected. Calm. Controlled.
She turned slightly, surprised. "Yes, nursing batch."
He nodded once. Then looked back at the sky.
“Want a drop?” he asked, casually. Not flirtatious. Not urgent. Just... an offer.
She hesitated. This city was full of stories she didn’t want to star in. But there was something about him. Something that made her forget to say no.
“I… sure. Thank you.”
The rain hadn’t stopped, but it had gentled—more like a lingering caress than a downpour. Outside the hospital gate, a sleek black BMW purred under the grey sky, drops of water sliding down its body like polished glass.
The man walked straight to the driver’s side, unlocking it with a soft click. He slid in, started the engine, and glanced toward her.
“You waiting for someone?” he asked through the open window, voice calm.
She shook her head, clutching her notebook close. “Autos are charging double.”
He leaned back slightly, eyes scanning her once—wet hair clinging to her forehead, white nursing coat slightly creased, and dark circles under her sharp, curious eyes.
“Where to?” he asked.
She hesitated. “Near 5th cross, there's a PG. Just fifteen minutes away.”
“Hop in.”
That was it.
No hesitation in his tone. No forced smile. Just a clean offer, like he'd said the same to hundreds before.
She got in.
The car’s interior was cool and quiet. Smelled like leather, expensive cologne, and something sterile—like the man himself. No radio. No music. Just the soft squeak of the wipers and the city murmuring beyond the glass.
“You’re new,” he said, eyes still on the road.
“First week. Nursing.”
He nodded once. “Name?”
“Ritika.”
He repeated it softly, like tasting it. “Where are you from, Ritika?”
“A village near Siliguri,” she replied, almost defensively.
“No shame in that,” he said casually. “People from small places often carry bigger hunger.”
She looked at him, intrigued. “What about you?”
“Born here. Studied abroad. Came back.”
“That’s rare.”
He smirked. “Not everyone runs away forever.”
A pause. Her fingers played with her dupatta, twisting it.
“And why nursing?” he asked.
She took a breath. “Because I couldn’t afford medicine. But I wanted to be close to that world. It’s a start.”
He glanced at her again. “You speak like someone older.”
“Maybe life made me skip a few steps.”
A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes.
By the time they reached her PG, neither wanted the silence to end.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said.
He nodded, pulling out his phone. “Your number?”
She gave it.
He sent a message. No words, just presence.
“You have mine now,” he said. “Anubhav Sen. In case you need a ride. Or a conversation.”
She smiled faintly. “I’ll remember that.”
As she stepped out into the fading drizzle, her thoughts buzzed louder than the city behind her.
She didn’t know who he really was.
But she knew what he could be.
A man like Dr. Anubhav wasn’t a shortcut.
He was a door.
And Ritika had always been brave enough to knock.
The rain had left the world quiet.
Ritika lay still on her narrow PG bed, her roommates asleep, the fan spinning shadows across the ceiling. But sleep wouldn’t come—not tonight.
At 12:04 AM, she unlocked her phone.
One name glowed at the top of her chat list.
Anubhav.
She hesitated. Then typed:
“Can’t sleep. Maybe your fault.”
A minute passed. Then her phone beeped, signaling the arrival of a text message.
“Now that’s intriguing. Why my fault?”
“You said I speak like someone older. That thought stuck.” Ritika sent quickly.
“I meant it as a compliment.” his reply comes after a short pause.
“Do you usually compliment girls half your age at midnight?” a teasing tone hidden behind the words.
“Only the ones who make silence interesting.” he replied with no hesitation.
She smiled, tucking the phone close to her chest.
“What are you doing right now?”
“Lying on the couch. Reading. Listening to the rain.” Anubhav’s words feel calm.
“Alone?”
A pause.
Anubhav: “Always.”
Ritika: “That’s sad.”
Anubhav: “Is it?”
Ritika: “Depends. If someone chooses to be alone, maybe not. But if he’s used to it… that’s different.”
He didn’t reply immediately.
Then came:
Anubhav: “Are you trying to ask something without asking?”
Ritika: “Maybe. Should I just say it?”
Anubhav: “Say it.”
Ritika: “Why would a man like you come home to an empty apartment?”
The silence was longer this time. The screen falls silent as both wait for the next message. Then he replied.
“No wife. Never had one.”
“Why not?”
“Wrong timing. Right women, maybe. Just... not for me.”
“So what is for you?”
“Still figuring that out.”
She paused. The air felt charged.
Then she type slowly.
“I want to see you tonight.”
Another pause.
“Now?”
“What, scared of midnight visitors?” Ritika smiled.
“You don’t strike me as the type who knocks quietly.”
“Maybe I prefer walking in uninvited.”
He chuckled, the sound warm through the screen.
“You always this dangerous?” Anubhav replied.
“Only when I think the man can handle it.”
He replied slower this time.
“Then maybe… you should spend a night at my place.”
She raised her brows at the screen, smiling.
“Just one night?”
“For starters.” Anubhav replied without hesitation.
“You inviting all your nurse girls like this? Hmm?” Ritika sent in a teasing tone.
“Only the one who said I made her lose sleep.”
She bit her lip, feeling her heart race.
“And if I say yes?”
“Then I’ll pick you up tomorrow. After your classes.”
A long pause. Then came her soft reply:
“Okay… just don’t make me regret it.”
“Good then. Pack light. But bring everything you need to feel safe.” Anubhav replied.
“That includes trust. You have that?”
“Enough to share.” he replied instantly.
“Okay, I'll be ready.” she replied.
The next evening, just as the sky began to dim into twilight, Anubhav’s car rolled to a quiet stop outside Ritika’s PG. She stepped in without a word, her small bag slung casually over one shoulder, her eyes meeting his with a knowing smile. Neither of them spoke much on the drive—there was no need. The silence between them wasn't awkward, but ripe with something unspoken. When they reached his apartment, she stepped in and let the warmth of the place wrap around her like a promise.
That night was neither wild nor romantic. It was intimate, yes—but not in the way poets describe. They didn’t chase love or illusions. They simply reached for each other with quiet hunger, as two people who knew exactly what they needed, and exactly what they didn’t. There were whispers, some laughter, a few lingering touches—but no promises. No stories of forever.
By morning, Ritika was still there, wrapped in one of his shirts, sipping coffee by his window like she belonged there. And strangely, he let her stay. Days turned into weeks. She never asked for anything directly—but her college fees were paid on time, her PG shifted to a single room, and her phone got upgraded without a word. Anubhav took care of everything—silently, efficiently. She never called him her boyfriend. He never called her anything at all. They didn’t need labels. Just the quiet rhythm of two lives brushing against each other in the dark, without demands, without strings—only need. And for now, that was enough.
